"Outwardly, only outwardly," said La Croissette. "The poor old gentleman
was driven almost out of his senses by that deafening drumming. 'You
shall have rest now,' said the bishop. 'Alas!' replied he, 'I look for
no rest on this side heaven; and may God grant that its doors may not be
closed against me by this act.'"

"Poor old man! poor Monsieur Laccassagne!" ejaculated my father. "Well
might he say so."

"Yes, but what reasonable person can suppose the doors of heaven will
be closed against him by it?" said La Croissette. "The Lord is a God of
mercy--"

"But will by no means clear the guilty," said my father.

"And He looketh not to the outward appearance, but to the heart," said
La Croissette.

"That expression applies to the personal, bodily appearance, which none
of us can help," said my father, "not to the pretence of believing one
thing, when we believe, its opposite. I mourn over the backsliding of
my old friend. Better had it been to suffer affliction for a season.

"So the virtuous lady his wife thought," said La Croissette. "She
escaped in the disguise of a servant, and is now wandering in the open
fields."

"Ah, what sorrow! May the good Lord support her under it!"

"Ay, and the many other women who are in similar case. Numbers of them